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Eye Cutter is finally available! I haven't linked to it on my social media, and I'm planning on announcing it in my newsletter tomorrow, so if you wandered over here and saw this, please don't tell anyone yet. But feel free to get your copy early here!
Then Jesus was led up by the Spirit into the wilderness to be tempted by the Devil. And when He fasted forty days and forty nights, afterward He was hungry. Now when the tempter came to Him, he said, "If you are the Son of God, command that these stones become bread."
But He answered and said, "It is written, 'Man shall not live by bread alone, but by every word that proceeds from the mouth of God.'"
Satan laughed. "Eh, just fucking with you, kid. Kinda weird that your Dad sent me to see if you'll flake on Him. Seems pretty insecure to me."
Jesus said to him, "It is written again, 'You shall not tempt the Lord your God.'"
"I get it. Family's family. You're a pretty loyal guy. And you seem to have humanity's best interests in heart. But you really haven't thought this through. They're going to kill you for trying to pervert Jewish holy law. Not 'might kill you.' I'm saying 'will kill you.'"
Jesus said, "I will never fall to my knees and worship you no matter how much you offer me."
"I'm not offering you anything," Satan said. "And I don't want you to worship me. But I think you'd change your mind if you knew what I knew."
Jesus said, "The mouth of Satan issues naught but hot air."
Satan smiled. "That's quite an insult from you. I like it. I'm offering something to humanity instead."
Jesus turned away, prepared not to listen to the Devil's words.
Satan swept a hand across the horizon. "BEHOLD!"
Clouds swirled in the miasma covering the universe. Jesus saw visions of the future. He saw dictators murdering millions in the name of Jesus Christ. He saw politicians oppressing people in the name of Jesus Christ. He saw intellectual bankruptcy in the form of book burning and banning in the name of Jesus Christ. He saw millennia of people doing billions of terrible things to their fellow humans all in the name of Jesus Christ.
"All of this will come to pass," Satan said. "All because you thought you were doing the right thing. And you were. Indeed, you were. It's not your fault that others took your mission and perverted it in the name of evil."
"That's almost funny coming from you," Jesus said.
"I have always been on humanity's side," Satan said. "From the Garden of Eden. Unless you think Knowledge of Good and Evil is something to be withheld from sentient beings. And now I'm trying to save the world from all the terrible things that will be done because you mindlessly followed your Father's instructions. True evil is taking the Lord's name in vain. And that doesn't mean saying 'goddammit,' for example. It's doing evil in the name of the Lord, pretending to be good. Think of the countless lives that will be saved if you turn away now."
Jesus shook and watched as more horrors played out before his very eyes, and he realized in that moment that all the shit in the world outweighed the good of sacrificing himself. Now that he thought about it, his Dad wouldn't have come up with some bullshit like this. Creators aren't interested in the morality of their creations. If God wanted to change a rule, then He should just change the rule. In fact, why have rules in the first place? It sounded like something that humanity would come up with, not a creator.
Jesus sighed. "OK, I won't go."
The Devil clapped him on the shoulder. "That was the kindest thing you could have done."
Jesus disbanded his disciples. He stopped wandering the earth performing miracles. He married and had kids and lived a very long life. He died an old man surrounded by his loved ones. And while humanity didn't live happily ever after, as religion still existed, they had a much better go of it than they would have otherwise.
THE END
Road House is one of my favorite fucking movies. Forget the stuff about a drifter coming to town to clean out the bad guys. As a fan of westerns that is one of my favorite kinds of stories. But look deeper. I love the idea that there is a secret underground society of coolers, philosophical warriors, and that road houses and bars and such seek to hire members of this society to clear out assholes and scumbags from their establishments. But not by force. By being nice. Until, of course, it's time to not be nice. But that's a last resort thing.
It's exceptionally well written and acted. The bad guys are fucking bad, except for Tinker, maybe. Poor Tinker is a little too likeable and stupid to be as bad as the others. But the rich corporate guy wants to take over this small town, and it's up to Dalton to take him on. With a little help from the best, Wade Garrett. The important thing, though, is Dalton uses intelligence to fight these guys. He uses his wits. But when things get really bad, like when he's fighting the dude who fucked men tougher than Dalton in prison, he's willing to rip out a throat. Needs must.
So yeah. The fact that someone did a remake of this wonderful classic didn't sit well with me. And I'm the kind of guy who gave up on remakes, reboots, what have you. I don't watch them because I know I won't like them. I know at least 50 people, probably more, who will watch every one of these things because they can't help themselves. If I asked them why, they usually say something to the effect that they're expecting the worst, hoping for the best. Which is what I used to say until I stopped. I realized that the reason they keep making these things is because of people who say they'll watch it even though they think it will suck. So if they stopped watching these fucking things, then these fucking things would stop getting made. It's reliable IP (and don't get me started on people who refer to art as IP) that puts asses in seats. So stop putting your ass in that seat, and they'll stop tormenting us with their artistic bankruptcy.
But I had to watch the new Road House. I wanted it to be good, and I hoped for some of the same thrill I got from watching the original.
Much to my surprise I actually did like it. Don't get me wrong. It's not nearly as good as the original. It gets rid of the underground society of coolers. It gets rid of the be-nice creed, although the new Dalton is as nice as he can be until it's time to not be nice. I love how he beats the shit out of a few people only after he knows there's a nearby hospital, and then he borrows a car so he can drive those guys to said hospital. It's a nice touch. (He also apologizes to the ER doctor for the extra work!)
The villain is still a rich douchebag with a seemingly unending supply of goons. He's not quite the same as the original (I suspect his imprisoned father is more in line with that), but he's crazy and a little unhinged. He recognizes right off the bat that he can't beat Dalton in a physical fight, so he fucks with his mind by telling him he knows all about Dalton's dark past as a UFC fighter who killed a guy in the Octagon.
I'm not too happy with the UFC stuff. It's stupid, but it's not a deal breaker.
Which brings us to the worst part of this movie: Conor McGregor, former UFC fighter turned actor. He's not necessarily bad at the job. I kind of like the awful strutting and grinning he does in this movie. And he really likes to strut with his butt hanging out, which is kind of funny. And he certainly is a menace tougher than the original Dalton had to deal with. But the character is flat, almost nonexistent. He's not a person, he's a manic bundle of bad-guyness designed for a hero to defeat. Although he's a good foil for Dalton. Dalton uses violence as a last resort, and he doesn't like to do even that. McGregor (I can't remember the character's name, and I wonder why . . .) chooses violence first and foremost, and I have the impression that it gets his dick hard.
I just don't understand how an accused rapist and abuser of women got an acting job in Hollywood. Judging by the things he's been up to, he's a huge fan of violence outside the Octagon and might not have been acting all that much in this film. It's a bit much for me, but it did make me feel better near the end of the movie (but made me angry again with a post credits scene). I think they should have gotten someone else for this role. I suspect it might have been written for McGregor, though. All things considered.
So the remake is fun. It's badass cinema. It's good. But it doesn't even come close to touching the original. I think it was Outlaw Vern who said that capturing lightning in a bottle again in this case is impossible because they stopped making that kind of bottle. I think he's right. I liked the flick. Just proceed with caution.
Imagine you're in the Mexican town of Puerto Triunfo. Just hanging out. Maybe you're on vacation. You want to see the sights a little, so you wander off the beaten path and HOLY SHIT! WHY ARE THERE FUCKING HIPPOS IN MEXICO?
An excellent question, as they are native to Africa and shouldn't even be in this hemisphere. How did they get there? And why are there so many of them? 170 to be exact?
One man's hubris, of course. It's always hubris behind these kinds of things. Except the man in question this time is Pablo Escobar. Back in the 'Eighties he bought a lot of animals and created a private zoo for his own pleasure. Among those animals were four hippos. All 170 are descended from them, and if this keeps up, they may number in the thousands soon.
When Escobar was killed the zoo became a tourist attraction because, and I can't believe I'm saying this, the former drug kingpin's estate was turned into a fucking theme park. Disneyland. Universal Studios. Oh yeah, and Escobarland. The zoo is still there, but the hippos, for whatever reason, were able to escape and reproduce. They are now considered an invasive species with no natural predator. If hippos have a natural predator, I have no idea what the fuck that would look like. They're damned near impossible to kill. Good thing they generally don't eat meat.
The problem has gotten so out of hand that authorities, who for some reason unbeknownst to anyone have done nothing over the decades since Escobar's death, have decided to sterilize them and/or euthanize them. I can't imagine what that operation must be like. Could you imagine anesthetizing a hippo so you can clip its tubes? Picture that for a moment, and you'll realize the sheer insanity of that.
Nothing is sane about this story. Nothing. This shit got out of hand fast, and it's only going to get crazier. They plan to sterilize 40 hippos a year. Each sterilization costs ten grand and requires a team of eight. How feasible is that?
I've had all kinds of infestations in the places I've lived. Cockroaches, ants, flies, even bees one year. I can't wrap my mind around a hippo infestation. Who could? Can you grasp that?
I guess the lesson here is, if you're going to be a drug kingpin, don't buy hippos no matter how much you want to. And you might want to. Also, make sure that when you're gunned down in the future to leave property that the authorities can turn into a theme park, please and thank you.
Corporations never get tired of fees. They can fee the shit out of you left and right, up and down, every which way but loose except they do loose, too. Want to get your money from an ATM? Enjoy your withdrawal fee. Do you like using the gas pedal in your car? You can continue using it so long as you pay your monthly subscription. And let's not bother looking at airlines and the Cthulhu tentacled maw of fees hanging out of their asses. Most people just pay the fee and move on, but we shouldn't be encouraging that kind of behavior. All the fees are out of control for everything. And if you don't think that's important, let me set the stage for tonight's story.
You live in Libertyville, IL, and you're a pregnant mom with two kids and a passel of dogs. You've just returned from the pet shop, and you walk your 7-year-old and dogs into the house before you go back for your 2-year-old in the car seat. Except this is the moment when two carjackers chose to steal your car. The one that still has your li'l tyke in it.
Mom power takes over, and you rush to save your kid, but the carjackers attack you before running you over with your own car. You're still alive, probably running on sheer adrenaline, but there's nothing more you can do as your car vanishes in the distance.
Luckily your car has a GPS tracker, so you call the car company to get the location of your vehicle. You get your kid back. The carjackers go to prison. Everyone lives happily ever after.
Except the car company is Volkswagen, and your GPS free trial has expired. If you want to get your kid back (not sure how you feel about the car at this point), you will have to pay a $150 fee to activate the software.
That's what happened to a Libertyville family not too long ago. VW refused to help until they had that $150 payment. Even the cops were taken aback, and you know how I feel about those fucking guys. Check it out:
"This is an abducted 2-year-old, and the response was there is nothing they can do this is their policy," added Deputy Chief Chris Covelli with the Lake County Sheriff's Office.
Holy shit. Corporations do not care about you. They only care about money. Remember that every time you see a commercial where the corporation claims their workers are all family, and it's a fun and rewarding workplace. Here's a quote from the mother in this story:
"I didn't even think that that would be an issue that Volkswagen would refuse to tell us where our son was - especially when it's a kidnapping, and every second matters," said Shepherd. "It's life or death that we're going to get him home."
And here's the bitch of this story. VOLKSWAGEN DID NOT HELP UNTIL THEY PAID THAT FEE. Only then did they activate the software and find the car. By then it was a moot point. Someone had found the kid wandering by a highway in Waukegan. They also found the car, so this story has a somewhat happy ending. I say somewhat because they never did get the carjackers. And the family suffers from nightmares. They're all in therapy now. Understandably so.
After the fact, and without contacting the family in question, Volkswagen started offering the GPS feature for free for five years. Fucking assholes. Although I can only imagine what would happen if they were called upon to help solve another kidnapping after the five year time limit. I can only guess they'll want $150 to help. Or more. I'm sure by that point it will be two hundred. Hell, why not three? If regulators are too stretched thin to, uh, regulate, then what's to stop you from charging four hundred? Five?
I'll let the mom have the last word, and I hope it's something you'll think about the next time you're tempted to pay a fee just to ignore it.
"How could you not give that information when you know what could happen to that little child?" Shepherd said.
Nope. Not at all. I got sick again this morning. I also had my abscess wound violated. The doctor put a Q-Tip into the wound several times to see how deep it is. So no, I'm not feeling it tonight.
After last night's GF I'm sure you can figure out that I'm not doing all that great. I'm still leaking bloody pus from my ass, so I'd rather not be sitting at my laptop and typing. I was already at work for eight hours, where I sat down all day. My ripped up jeans aren't looking so hot, but I decided to wear my trench coat whenever I had to stand up. Only the sups know about about the seat of my pants.
So needless to say, this will be a short one.
Every once in a while I hear someone admonish someone else for using the word "ain't." They say things like, "Ain't isn't a word." I need that to stop now. Yes, this is coming from the guy who fought tooth and nail to hold onto the Oxford comma. I lost that one and others, and the score is very obvious to me now. Evolve or be left behind.
The next time someone tells you ain't isn't a word, tell 'em I said fuck you. No, wait, don't do that. Sorry, I'm feeling very . . . raw. Raw is the perfect word for my current state. No, instead tell them to look at a dictionary. They'll find ain't under the A's. So yeah, that makes it a word.
Languages are supposed to evolve over time. Take a look at the earliest form of our language, Old English. It has very little in common with modern usage of English. Ours is a Germanic language, and Old English sounds kind of like German.
Ain't might not be grammatical, as it's a contraction of "is not." One would be hard pressed to find out what "ai" means. But you should still use "ain't."
If I were to say to you the word "enormity," what would you say that means? Hint: it doesn't mean "enormous." Give up? It indicates a bad act or an immoral act, one that's really, really bad. Like, say, flying a couple of planes into the World Trade Center. But so many people got the definition wrong that the language said, fuck it. Enormity means big now.
This one still irritates me, but language evolution is also why when people use the word "literally" they could be referring to something figurative instead. People literally kept saying "literally" for dramatic effect rather than its actual meaning. Watching a baseball player running fast to home plate, an announcer might say, "Look at him go! He's literally on fire!" But there is an unfortunate lack of flames on the player's body. I still hold a grudge on this one, but fine.
Heh. Fine usually means OK, but considering how many people use it who are suffering in silence? I'll bet fine will mean something else in the near future.
Language evolves. Evolve with it.
Around about the time I started writing these columns I had a horrible abscess in a very uncomfortable place, ie. an inch from my sack. I don't feel like going back through 14 years of Tales of Unspeakable Taste to find the pieces I wrote about it. Needless to say, it was a harrowing experience, one I would have liked to never experience again.
The abscess didn't come back the very next day, but it did rear its ugly face again. A little while ago I was showering when I felt an odd lump on the inside of my right asscheek, right there in the crack. It was maybe the size of my fingernail. Oh shit. Well, I'm seeing my doctor in a couple of weeks. I'll mention it to him then.
And the fucker grew overnight. I wouldn't say it was as big as a baby's fist, like the first abscess had been, but this one was long and felt kind of like the first two knuckles of my middle finger. Due to my recent ER visits I didn't want to go back there. My hospital was bought out, and I think the new corporate overlords are trying to enshittify it. I hoped my doctor could lance it himself, so I called his office and was told in no uncertain terms that this falls under the purview of the ER.
So I went back, thinking at least it wasn't five yet. Five is when it gets really busy there. But my hopes were dashed immediately when I saw the waiting room was full. So I sat--on my ass, you know, the one with the fucking abscess on it--and waited for hours. They were so busy they put me on the cardiac ward instead.
The doc eventually came in, numbed my butt cheek and cut into the abscess. I could feel his findings dribbling down to the back of my nutsack. I was face down, so at least I was spared the stink, unlike last time. It felt like I lost about fifteen pounds of bloody pus, but when I sat up it looked like a watery blood stain, not nearly as big as I expected. Although it looked like it had gone down the outside of my thigh, too. When you pop an abscess, the rotten pus inside can go a fair distance. I remember the first time I saw bloody pus spots on the ceiling.
Thankfully I had experience, so I knew to wear a pair of boxers that didn't fit that well and a pair of ripped up jeans that I never wear anymore. I don't mean the knees were ripped up. If I wear pants long enough, the crotch eventually tears itself open in little spots. I still wore them because I didn't have a lot of money, but once I ran the risk of my dick poking out I packed them away.
I didn't think about my trench coat, though, nor the seat of my car. I pulled the back of the coat up so it was above my waist, and I had a plastic bag in my console. I usually keep it there for when I go to Sonic because I've never *not* had their bags rip on me. As I type this I sit on another plastic bag to protect my blanket.
(If you ever wondered what I look like when I write these, I'm sitting in bed wearing nothing but my boxers. How's that for a horrifying fuckin' image?)
Today was my day off. Tomorrow I have to go to work with the seat of my pants stained red. I will sit on a plastic bag at my desk. And I will probably be in pain, but lucky me, I held back a few pain pills. Hopefully that will pacify my ass. Literally. Anyway, it should be fun explaining to my coworkers why my pants are stained in such a fashion. Ordinarily I'd have to tell that to just one person, but they canceled work at home last week, so the office will be full tomorrow. Lucky them.
I spent almost all of my life being a shitty cook. I could barely put a bowl of cereal together. It's weird because my dad was a great cook. So was his father before him, so it's not like it skips a generation. I can't tell you how many kitchens I've set on fire because I was a lousy cook. Scratch that, I can tell you the exact number: four.
For the longest time I thought I just didn't have it in me. Like building things or writing what my mom called "nice stories." "Do you have to write about death all the time? Why can't you write something nice?" But as I grew older I thought maybe there was a psychological block in my head somewhere. I loved my dad, but we had a few issues over the years, and I didn't want to follow in his footsteps. So maybe that was it.
A friend of mine agreed, and he offered to teach me how to make my favorite food ever: cheeseburgers. And now I make some damn fine burgers. With the cheese on top of the patty, goddammit. On top, like it's supposed to be, Randers.
I figured if I could make a cheeseburger breakthrough, maybe if I put my mind to it I can teach myself how to cook. Now that I think about it, I'm sure I've talked about this before. That's the thing about doing 800+ columns. It's hard to remember every single thing you've written about.
But I'm going into something specific here. While I was on sick leave, during a day where I felt pretty decent, I decided to make a full breakfast. Eggs, toast, bacon, hash browns. Except I have no fucking clue how to make hash browns.
But the second to last time I went out to Vegas to visit Dad, he showed me an alternate way to make them: mash up a bunch of tater tots. So that's what I did. Granted, I was using memories that were a few years old and experienced originally through an alcohol haze, but by the time I was done and eating I couldn't help but think, goddam, these hash browns are really fucking good.
I realized in that moment that Dad was living through me. He was alive again for however long it took me to make those hash browns and eat them. It was a good feeling. I may even have lamely said hi to him, but I can't be certain, especially not in such a public forum. My eyes might have been a little wet, too. It was probably caused by dust.
I rode high on that good feeling until later that night when I realized, no, Dad lived through me because I'm his flesh and blood continued. He lives through my brother, Frank, and my sister Rachael. But more to the point, I'm an uncle now. (If you can imagine that horror. And yes, I've decided that if called upon to perform uncle-type duties, I will model myself after Gary Busey in Silver Bullet, as God intended.) Dad lives on through li'l baby Jameson.
Sometimes I think that's the point of life, to keep the ball rolling. I kinda blew that one, as I have no children. I sometimes joke that I don't think I have kids, but I'm 99% certain I don't. I'm very careful when it comes to that kind of thing. But to keep the chain of humanity going ever onward, ever evolving, for as long as we can? That seems to be something we're good at.
Then again, sometimes I think the point of life is having a really good breakfast, and that day I dined like a king.
Ooh. La-di-da. Look at me. Jeez. Anyway.
The reason I bring up Kurt Russell is because he does a fantastic job as Wyatt Earp in the movie, Tombstone. I'm sure I don't have to tell you that, kind of like I don't have to tell you that water is wet. I noticed something that not many other people talk about, which is that Russell adds a particular flavor to his acting style in this one. I saw it again in H8ful Eight and in Bone Tomahawk, which others *have* mentioned, but if you really want to go back he did it in Big Trouble in Little China, where it's a lot more pronounced.
In these films Russell adds quite a bit of John Wayne to his performances. Go back and watch Tombstone again. You'll hear it in Russell's speech patterns.
It's a funny thing. If you go back to the very beginning of John Wayne's career, back when he was still signing photos as "Marion," it turns out that Wayne modeled his demeanor after this guy who used to hang out on the sets of westerns in Hollywood's infancy. He thought this guy was the toughest son of a bitch he'd ever met and wanted to be just like him. He walked like this guy, he talked like this guy. The very persona of the Duke that everyone around my age is very familiar with was all based on this one guy.
This guy was there as a consultant. You see, he'd actually been part of the Wild West. He'd been the law in cow towns like Abilene and Dodge City (yes, Dodge City!). In fact, he ran a faro table in Tombstone. It's difficult to say how many men this guy killed, but the estimates range from eight to upwards of thirty.
That's the thing, though. He didn't *just* run a faro table in Tombstone. That guy's name?
His name was Wyatt Earp.
Time is a flat circle.
The older I get, the more I hear people say, "Oh God. I'm so old!" And the funny thing is, I hear people in their fuckin' twenties saying it. Granted, the world is so fucked right now that I'm not surprised they feel old. But I have a theory. People who say they're so old absolutely fucking love saying it. I think deep down they don't actually believe they're really old.
I think I'm old, but 45 isn't that old, big picture. Not only that, but the longer I live, the more I realize that appearance of age has changed drastically since I was a kid. People who were in their sixties when I was a wee lad looked more like they were in their eighties. Sixties looks a lot younger these days than it used to. Not sure what caused that, but people are staying more youthful than they used to. As a result, I think the only people allowed to say they're old are people aged seventy and above.
Conversely, don't ever dare tell a young person that they're young. Young people fucking hate that with a passion. I think it's their urge to grow up and be taken seriously. Young people look even younger to me today. College kids look like junior high schoolers to me. And they will fight tooth and nail to be considered old. Maybe that's why they start saying it in their twenties. It's an attempt to appear more worldly in the eyes of others.
I swear to fuck, youth is wasted on the young. If I knew all the things I do now back when I was still a teenager, I would have maximized my youth to its fullest potential. But I didn't. I was too busy thinking old. But there are things that I was very much aware of back then.
I was one of the very few kids who didn't want to grow up. (Yes, I was a Toys Backwards R Us kid.) I tried to hold onto the things of childhood later than others my age because I knew that the real world would be waiting to chew me up and spit me out, and I wanted to prolong that day for as long as possible. I still played with my GI Joes and Transformers long after I should have. I'd tell you when I stopped, but I'm going to leave that to your imagination. You'd think I was crazy. Considering all the other crazy shit I've said here, that's probably saying something.
I remember the last class I had in high school. I remember looking around, thinking I would never see this place again. I'd graduate, and that was it. When I walked out the main entrance to the buses, then I would no longer be a student. And I have never gone back to York Community High School since graduation. I clutched at these things, trying to stop time from moving so goddam fast. Savoring experiences that no one else ever would simply because I knew I wouldn't have that in adulthood.
When I hit adulthood, I hit pretty hard. I accepted that my world had moved on, and I had to move on to keep up. The world is always moving on. And I think that's what's at the heart of my midlife crisis.
"This also shall pass." Contrary to popular belief that's not in the Bible. It's in Solomon's Seal by Edward FitzGerald. It's probably an old Persian saying, but FitzGerald popularized it. I suppose it's easy to see why so many people think it's biblical. But here's the quote: "The Sultan asked Solomon for a signet motto, that should hold good for Adversity and Prosperity. Solomon gave him, 'This also shall pass away.'" I'm certain it's what Chuck Berry was thinking of when he wrote "Pass Away."
It's possibly the wisest thing someone could say. It's 100% true in the best of times and the worst of times. It was true before humanity rose from the beasts, and it will be true after we're gone.
I want you to think of your favorite toy from when you were a kid. Some of you may even still have it, but I'll bet for most of you it's long gone. Do you long for it? Or do you think, ah, that's just kid stuff. Now hold your most prized possession and know that one day either you will not have it, or it will not have you. You always hope for the former, but the latter is always there, waiting. As Chuck Berry said, "But mortal flesh must come to clay, even this must pass away."
"I'm so old!" Maybe. Maybe not. But the next time someone says that to you, look them in the eye. You'll feel the words are exaggerated frustration, and that there is a gleam of pleasure in that person's eyes. Don't be so quick to age. If you live long enough, you'll get there, and I'll bet not a single one of you will facetiously say you're old. When you say it in the future, YOU WILL MEAN IT. And then there's no turning back. The world will have moved on.
When I was a kid I built my share of snow forts. The unfortunate thing is, I was lousy at it. Thankfully, and this is probably the only time you'll hear me say this, but thankfully I had my stepfather.
I talk shit about him all the time with good reason, but no one is completely a piece of shit. Except for Donald Trump, but he barely qualifies as human. At any rate, my stepfather had a few good qualities, and one of them was he was a genius. He was a biologist with a well-known Chicago area university, and he wrote books on the subject.
I should probably mention, before you start armchair shrinking me, that I wanted to be an author *before* I met him. Just a weird coincidence.
One of the things he was really good at was building snow forts. They were masterpieces of architecture. He tried to teach me how, but I have no skill for building anything, the reason being is I can somehow measure out, say, an inch, but anyone else measuring the same inch would get two. At first I thought I was so unlucky that I blamed every ruler I ever got for being wrong until I realized that the problem was with me.
Hey, I was ten years old when I came to that conclusion.
I shit you not, someone could live in his snow forts. The walls were so solid you could probably punch one and break your hand. And these fuckers were huge. As a child I could stand up inside, reach my hand up and barely touch the ceiling. And he didn't just build this part, because he knew that you needed a refuge during a snow battle, but you needed ramparts to defend, too. He also built those ramparts so that they were nearly impenetrable.
No one could sack our snow fort, no matter how hard they tried. I rarely won anything when I was in his presence, but I could win snow wars. And yes, I did pretend I was on Hoth during such skirmishes.
You know what I never see anymore? Kids building snow forts. It seems they're only interested in snowmen, and that's just barely. I know, I know, kids today have so many things vying for their attention, but I *did* have TV when I was a kid. Maybe the other parents back then forbade their kids from watching TV for too long, and they're not doing that for any and all devices today for whatever reason.
I don't want to come off as a grumpy old man complaining about kids today ("But?" I hear you ask), but my complaint is *not* with the kids. It's with their parents. We have adults today who were raised on the internet and tablets and smartphones, and that can't possibly be healthy. Why aren't parents more vigilant today? I'm sure middle-aged men when I was a kid were bitching about how TV couldn't possibly be healthy for kids, so maybe I'm just muttering darkly at the cloud instead of yelling at it. I *do* think I'm going through a midlife crisis, after all. I could be talking out of my ass, but the older I get the more I enjoy time away from any screen, any modern tech. It feels better, and I'm not sure why other people don't do that. I get it. Devices are addictive. They're designed that way, like cigarette companies putting nicotine in their product.
*sigh* Ah well.
I have very few happy memories with my stepfather, but I do miss those days building snow forts with him.
I think I might have mentioned here that I've been getting spinal injections for my bad foot and for the pain in my back. I've had three of them so far, and the fourth and final one is scheduled for next Thursday.
Except . . .
Today I saw the doctor I originally saw for this, not the pain clinic doc. We were discussing next steps, and I told him about the injections. He said he does those procedures himself and knows they're good, and he's glad I'm feeling better, but he doesn't think that last injection will help me. It will be the same as the one I got last Thursday, meaning it won't be different like the other two. It's for arthritis in my back, and he doesn't think it will help with what he thinks is causing the pain.
Because now that I've had an MRI he can see the discs between my vertebrae. Two of them we already knew were too thin, but now we can see they're bulging, too. Not much. Just enough to cause the pain. He says an epidural injection would be more beneficial to me, and that it should kill the pain but good.
So now I'm wondering what the hell I should do. I'm leaning toward doing the epidural and canceling next week's injection, but I want to talk to the pain clinic first. I also have a bunch of new info in my MyChart to look over in regards to the epidural. It's not a decision I need to make today, so I'm going to think about it tomorrow and over the weekend. I'll figure it out by Monday.
To do one spinal injection, or to do a different one? It's gonna suck either way. I view it as an Alien v Predator situation: whoever wins, we lose.
You probably heard about the TikTok bill working its way through Congress today because the House passed it on to the Senate, where it's likely to pass on to Joe Biden's desk. Biden has already said he would sign it into law.
I hesitate to use the word ban, because that's technically not what Congress is doing. Technically. Their problem is that ByteDance, who owns the company, is located in China, and we all know that talking shit about China gets politicians' dicks hard. Their concern is that the Chinese government might try to force the company to surrender its American users' data. (What about the rest of the world's data? Ah, fuck 'em, right?) What the bill actually says is, in order to continue operating in the US, ByteDance must sell TikTok to someone we're *not* enemies with. Either that, or they can kiss the US market goodbye.
So it's not a ban. It's a my-way-or-the-highway suggestion. It's altogether possible that ByteDance will eat the loss and move on because the US is only number three when it comes to population by country in the world. We're not even at half a million, and China and India have about 1.4M each. Granted, they're not all TikTok users, but that's a pretty wide market to take a bite out of. That's still not taking into account the populations of the other 231 countries. I saw a stat that says there's 172M TikTok users in the US. It would be painful to move on without us, but it's doable.
So it's possible it could turn into a ban, and all those politicians who voted for it will have their kids at their throats. I'm sure they live there on those various and sundry throats already, but I'm a little eager to see how that unfolds. Because I actually agree. TikTok should be held accountable, but not for the reasons Congress thinks.
Because ANY AND ALL corporate social media platforms do not give a single solitary fuck about their users' data. They view it as their job to take as much as possible from the users, not to help them. Helping people is detrimental to a company's bottom line. Social media is a huge fucking scam, and none of our data is safe.
If you doubt me, try turning down the terms and conditions when you sign up for a site. Have you ever read the terms and conditions? I'll bet you haven't, and if you did you wouldn't be so fast to sign away the rights to your data. But let's say you wanted to read the whole fucking thing. How long would it take?
That long. Whoo-boy, that Microsoft one is an absolute killer. These terms are designed that way to discourage you from reading it. Why spend the time when it's just easier to click on YES?
And don't get me wrong. I'm with you all, too. I signed my data away, as well, because there were more advantages to having, say, a Facebook page than there were disadvantages. But the longer I think about it, the less I'm comfortable with that.
I read a story today about how a bunch of people got scammed by a chef on Facebook. The problem is, it wasn't him. It was his profile, but someone hacked him, and when he tried getting his page back Facebook was absolutely no help. Such complaints apparently fall down into a black hole and are never seen again. No, really!
Like the guy in that story, most people who are hacked out of their profiles are so frustrated they give up and leave social media altogether. I understand that, but how comfortable are you knowing that a scammer now controls your Facebook page and has access not only to all your pictures, but also to those DMs you send?
You've known me a while, so I'm sure you know what my next step is. That's right, social media isn't special. ALL corporations do this. If you're unfamiliar with Cory Doctorow's concept of "enshittification," it goes like this. Companies are super helpful to their users while they're building their audience. Then they fuck over their users in favor of advertisers. The final step is when they fuck over the advertisers in favor of their own products. Since we're using Facebook as an example, you can very easily track their enshittification. The moment Meta reared its head was when it entered the third stage. For some reason, though, Facebook has not collapsed like so many others before it. But as Doctorow is fond of quoting, "Anything that can't go on forever will eventually stop." Cheerful thought. Seems obvious, but think about it for a moment. What would you do if tomorrow Coca-Cola went out of business? Doesn't seem possible, does it? But one day Coke will be gone. It's a fact. We might not be around for that day, but it will come.
Long story short (too late) I don't think Congress is going far enough. TikTok is doing to its American users exactly what EVERY FUCKING SOCIAL MEDIA SITE DOES TO ITS AMERICAN USERS. All of them. No exceptions. So why go after just TikTok? Because they're Chinese and thus are our enemies?
Maybe we're getting a glimpse into the mind of Americanus politicianis, one of the most terrible species on the planet. The message I'm getting from them is, Chinese companies can't fuck with American users because, dammit, that's our job. We can't be outsourcing the abuse of American consumers to foreign nations. American companies might starve to death, and that's unthinkable.
Apply this bill to all corporations doing business in America, you fucking cowards.
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| The Jim Lahey Show and Randy |
If you follow me on social media, you know I did a rewatch of Trailer Park Boys. It turns out I missed a couple of movies the first time, and there's a new series. I finished it all, but that new series is exclusive to Swearnet. If you don't know, the boys created their own streaming network so they didn't have to be constrained by someone else's rules. For just two bucks a month you get access to everything.
So I finished what they had of TPB: Jail Shorts and moved on to other stuff. You all know I have an affinity for Mr. Lahey, as he and I were both thrall to the Liquor and its extremes. So I was happy to discover The Jim Lahey Show and Randy, a late night show with booze, cursing, alcoholic blowouts and other lunacies, weed and Randy's cheeseburger recipes.
Like, for example, Cheeseburger Pancakes. Yes, you read that right.
I'm a lot like Randy, too. When I'm at home I rarely wear a shirt, and I fuckin' love cheeseburgers. But I gotta get something off my chest. Randy doesn't know how to make a cheeseburger.
Randy is one of those assholes who puts the cheese UNDER THE PATTY. I'm a burger purist, and nothing should go under the meat. Everything should go up on top. Putting anything UNDER the meat changes the whole taste dynamic.
I think only cheese, ketchup and mustard should go on a burger. Some fast food places have decent onions and pickles, and I can live with that. I ordinarily hate bacon on a burger, but I've discovered that for some strange unfathomable reason the Bacon McDouble is great.
I'm never going to give anyone shit for putting tomatoes or lettuce on their burgers, but I would never put them on my burger. To me that's crazy talk. You can't let supposedly healthy food get in the way of a good burger.
And yes, if you were wondering I absolutely hate it when food touches food. Food must be pure and eaten separately from other food. And no, I won't just take the tomato and lettuce off the burger. THAT SHIT HAS INFECTED THE BURGER. It's of no use to me now.
And yes (again) I am a little OCD. Maybe more than that. I used to be a lot worse. I wouldn't exactly say I was Adrian Monk, but I was pretty bad.
*sigh* Maybe I'm being harsh on ol' Randers. I guess if it makes him happy, he should do it. I just hate to see good cheeseburgers go to waste like that.
And don't get me started on those damned kids on my lawn!
After being gone from work for nearly two months, I returned today. Of course I slept lousy last night, so I kind of shuffled through my day. I found, much to my delight, that I did not forget how to sell auto glass. Also, for the first time ever, I didn't have hours of emails and notifications waiting for me upon my return. I got through all of it before even punching in, and I was only five minutes earlier than usual today.
All in all, not a bad day. It felt good to be back to doing something with my days other than stewing in bed, waiting for my sickness bouts to be over. I almost got my quota before lunch. The afternoon slowed down, so I didn't get a lot of sales, but I made more than expected.
It was a fairly easy day until the last call of the shift. It's always the last call of the shift.
I had about eight minutes to go before quitting time, but I figured the incoming call wouldn't be the one to keep me late. It would be the next call. I was, of course, wrong.
"Lemme ask you a quick question," he said. You *all* know how I feel about "quick" questions. And, naturally, I had to do one of my most annoying tasks at work: I had to get OEM info for the customer.
Original Equipment Manufacturer, in case you were wondering. To do that I had to reach out to a dealership, and I usually have to call several of them before I get through to a parts department willing to help. This is where things get tricky because you can't ask what the part number is. 95% of the time they won't give it to you without a fight. The reason is, they want to sell the part, not help me with a fact finding mission. So I have to be very deceptive to get the info I need out of them, and it's a hassle. I have a long history of doing morally questionable things in the name of my job, but I'd just rather not. And then, my least favorite part, is tricking the parts desk guy into giving me the part number. I'm fairly successful at this. I'd say I only fail 20% of the time.
For this customer I called three dealers before I got someone who could help. And when I tricked him into giving me the part number, I saw it was nothing like the one I expected. This is because our system can look up any modern VIN (meaning, a VIN with 17 characters) EXCEPT for brand new vehicles. My system thought it was a Buick Envision, but in talking to the parts guy I discovered that this is supposed to be a brand new model debuting this year.
I kept working on it until I left, which was 20 minutes late. Fuck.
But I didn't talk to any asshole customers. I did have to clean up other people's mistakes, mostly customer mistakes, thankfully. But I made it through without suffering too much.
Except for one thing. After lunch I reached out to my contact in regards to that position I'm desperately trying to get with another team. It's a dream job (as far as dream jobs can go at this company), and I was afraid my time off might have fucked up my ambitions.
My contact was no longer with the company. I reached out to his boss, who would have been my boss, and he said that they decided not to go with anyone. They restructured the department instead. I am once again stranded at a sales job that pays fairly well but is otherwise not very pleasant for me. I'm not sure what I'm going to do about that. We seem to run through supervisors pretty quickly. Maybe another position will pop up, and I'll try for that.
I'm sure that work treated me well merely because it was my first day back. I'm sure I'll be bitching and moaning again soon. Maybe even by the end of the week! We shall see . . .
So the next day I went back to Graceland Cemetery to find Death from issue 2 and the Greek ruins from issue 3. Finding the statue of Death is easy. It marks the family grave of the pioneers who founded the City of Chicago. But no one is interested in the plaque on the back. Everyone wants to peer into Death's face to see how they're going to die.
That's not me talking out my ass. That's the urban legend. The first time I looked Death in the face? I saw Death's face and nothing more. That's held true for every subsequent time, including this most recent visit. Nothing. But it was good to see an old friend.
I was tempted to pull a Bill Murray in Ghostbusters 2 when he's taking pictures of a certain Carpathian, but maybe a cemetery isn't the best place to do that. But know in my mind I screamed, "Destroy me!"
Finding the place that looks like the Greek ruins on the cover of issue 3 was a little more difficult. Death is practically at the entrance. But I had to find the little island from which Fuller and I got the pictures for the third issue of Tabard Inn.
The cemetery was fairly deserted that day. I'd only seen one jogger there. But as I got closer to a forgotten corner I saw a coyote wandering around. Coyotes aren't super common around here, but they're not uncommon, either. Although this close to the city is a little weird. I'm more likely to see them across the street from where I live. The Prairie Path is home to more than a few.
But this guy looked a little big for a coyote, so I took a curve, and as I saw more of the front of the coyote, I realized, holy shit, it's a fucking WOLF. I don't think I've ever seen a dusty-colored wolf before, but that's what I was seeing in that moment. I stopped the car, and the wolf and I looked at each other for a while. I wondered what it would be like to come across such a creature in the wilderness. Wolves usually only attack in packs, but I felt certain that if I didn't have the protection of society and the car I was sitting in, this thing could tear me to pieces. If it wanted to.
It didn't want to. It seemed a little curious about me, but not curious enough to approach. So I waved, and it turned its head a little, and I drove off.
I did find the island, but that didn't mean I knew where the ruins were. I just knew I'd be able to find them once I had the island. It's a little island for a few graves, but you cross a bridge to get there. I like standing on bridges over small bodies of water because I can usually see the bottom, which means I can watch the fish. There are a lot of carp in that little creek, and I enjoyed my time watching them.
An attractive young woman approached me and asked if I was looking for someone. I smiled and said that I'm just enjoying the view. She said OK and walked away. Only then did I realize she was looking for a blind date. Meeting a blind date on an island in a cemetery? I'd love to hear that story.
But I make it a habit of not putting my nose where it doesn't belong. I'd found the island. I didn't need to walk around on it and interrupt her quiet time. I left her leaning on a grave, writing in a notebook.
I followed the path around until I found the ruins. They don't look quite like Greek ruins up close, but when seen through the trees from the island? Different story.
It's still a pretty excessive grave, but then again Graceland is full of those. I got up close to what I thought of as the Greek ruins.
It's a pretty imposing structure. I don't know who the Palmers were, but they must have been either very rich or very important or very both. A lot of local historical figures are buried at Graceland, including Allan Pinkerton.
I had the pictures I wanted, so I headed out of the cemetery. Which is kind of difficult because it's big, and you can get turned around easily. If you live in the Chicagoland area, I recommend spending an afternoon at Graceland. It's at the corner of Clark and Irving Park. It's a beautiful place.
Watch out for wolves . . .
The last time I was out there was the week before I started working at my new job selling auto glass. But I drove out there last week just out of nostalgia's sake. Since I said I was throwing out all the remaining issues of Tabard Inn, the magazine I used to edit and publish, the locations where we shot the covers have been on my mind.
And if you're wondering, David William Fuller did all photo shoots for Tabard Inn *except* the bumper sticker photos. I was going to link to his website, but it's not there anymore. He works mostly as a DJ these days, so if you need a DJ, you can find him on my Facebook friends list. He used to be my neighbor, but the last time I saw him was for my friend, Jesse's, wedding. Which was a great day, from what I remember, which isn't much. I think those days were when the Liquor finally had me in its clutches and wouldn't let go. My drinking was pretty crazy in those days. But I remember Fuller being an excellent DJ.
At any rate, I first found the roadside tomb when I worked for the City of Elmhurst as a parts driver. I'm trying to remember where they sent me on this run. I'm pretty sure it was to a place out in Virgil, which is just about where farmland begins around here. There are farms before Virgil, but that's where farmland begins in earnest.
To get there you have to go down North Ave. for a long way. I'd never seen a roadside tomb before, and the fact that it was so close to home made it feel even weirder. I knew then that the first issue of my fiction magazine must bear this on its cover.
We had a little difficulty in getting out there, and it was at night, so of course in the middle of our photo shoot (without a permit, what do I look like, Mr. Moneybags?) we were stopped by the cops. Fuller's quick thinking got us through. He said we were working on a school project. We're both roughly the same age, but we always looked younger, so they bought it.
This time out was the first time I'd see the place clearly in the day (and without police lights flashing, I might add). So I took the picture above. I noticed for the first time that the tomb had a name on it: NORTON. And then I saw this little plaque on the gate:
That's pretty cool.
I heard a dog barking relentlessly, but it was across the street at a farm. As I went back to my car, I saw it was called the Norton Farm. There were a bunch of guys working by the barn, and I saw they were looking at me. It made me a bit self-conscious, especially now that I knew that whoever was buried here had living kin so very close by. This tomb is so old I doubt anyone living at the farm knew the deceased, but still. I never met my great-grandparents, for example, and I'd hate to think of some stranger taking pictures of their graves. So I got out of there.
Issues two and three had their covers taken at Graceland Cemetery about a hop, skip and jump from the Music Box Theater (and, oddly, an old friend's methadone clinic, where I drove her two days out of every week back in the summer of 2020. I went back there to take a few more photos. You'll see them in part 2 tomorrow night.
Before we begin today you might want to check this out. Rob's been a friend of mine since high school. Right now he's recovering from having a bionic penile implant installed. The old one had a pump that shit the bed. Before he can test it out and stretch the flesh, as it were, I figured I'd put this out there and talk about those days.
The reason I met Rob, who was one year ahead of me at York Community High School in Elmhurst, was because we shared the same English teacher, a man named Mark Sibley. I hope he's still alive. He was a cool cat. Former NBA player. He got kicked out because he worshiped at the altar of cocaine. He was one of the weirdest teachers I ever had. He learned early on that I wanted to be an author, and I was writing my ass off. Turned out, he knew another writer in another class. He had us switch stories to give each other feedback.
My memory is starting to fail me. I think what happened was, Rob got my story and red penned it, and I got it back. Mr. Sibley never gave me Rob's story. Regardless, we saw each other around school and at McDonald's. The first time he came over was because Rob made friends with my cousin, Erik, first. He was Erik's guest, and I'm pretty sure Matt was there. I know Holsted wasn't there. Holsted never came over to my place.
But before long Rob and I hit it off. Fast forward more than 30 years later, and we're still friends. We've had our ups and downs, as all friendships do, but that was the foundation all those years ago. I know we were friends by 1993, but we might have met sometime in 1992, which was the start of my freshman year.
"The Dark" truly is atrocious. Even back then we knew it was bad. But that easy chair joke is still going strong. It's all right. Remember a while back when I said I sucked when I started out? He was witness to that, and I know he's reading this right now. One thought is going through his head: "Write It Down."
Anthony Havershame. The less said about him, the better. Because this character was actually based on a real person, and I don't know if that person ever found out it was me. He might even be lurking on some of your friends lists. I'm not going to go into the genesis of that series, but I will say that I use a variation of that name as a pseudonym today. If I'm writing gay erotica, then I'm writing it under the name Anthony Haversham. You can find his work in Indulge For Men.
Did you see my interview with John Wayne Comunale? He did it for his Patreon subscribers. We were talking about my past as a porn writer. I told him the name of the magazine, but he kept saying Honcho instead. I understood the joke at the time, but since then I've actually seen Honcho in the wild, and it makes me laugh harder now.
Anyway, I did stop writing about young Anthony's adventures, but Rob talked me into starting a new series with him as coauthor featuring a similar character but far more deranged. He was cunningly named Richard Thruster. He went on to become a star at our school. A big fish in a small pond. Not bad. But we crossed a lot of lines in that series and even wrote one of our teachers into it. One of Rob's friends decided to leave a copy anonymously on that teacher's desk. They never caught me. Rob might have been a suspect because, well, as a life-long criminal, he's usually suspect #1. But I was the good, quiet kid who never rocked the boat. I was like the Spanish Inquisition. Nobody expected me.
Look at me now. Made it, Ma! Top of the world!
One more thing before I go. He called me "astute," but also added that I pretend that I'm not. Dammit, man. You can't just tell the world that! I make it a habit of ensuring people underestimate me. How can I do that if they know my game?
Its been unseasonably warm lately, but last week there was one night in particular when the temperature was perfect.
It's hard to describe. That night had a certain quality to the air, and it reminded me of when I was young and getting ready to leave home for the evening. There would be adventures, and you really wouldn't know what you'd get up to, just that it was going to be awesome.
A chill to the night air. Nothing excessive. Just slight. It's a spring night stolen from winter. You might not even need a jacket. There are friends waiting at a house party or a bar, or we're just chilling somewhere. Whatever it may be, adventure is in the air.
But I'm 45 now. Adventure still has its allure, but I just don't have the energy to take it on. I felt sad when I realized that I wasn't going out last week, that I was just going to go home and relax and wait for the next day. Because it feels like a missed opportunity. To be young again, to go on said adventures. When those times end, that's when you know you're getting old.
The world has moved on. So have I. O Discordia!
The second to last time I was in the ER they refused to give me one of the two things that helps me. There is only one cocktail of drugs that work on me when I'm sick like that, and it's Zofran and morphine. One or the other doesn't work. It has to be both. They didn't want to give me the morphine because they thought it was constipating me.
Yes, I know opioids constipate. I of all people should know that. But that didn't constipate me. If he was right, then I would have had to have been on morphine two days before my ER visit, and that's not possible. You need a doctor for morphine administered in a hospital. You can't legally get it otherwise, and if I was going to go score something on the street, it wouldn't be weak sauce like morphine.
But once an ER doc gets it in their head, they can't get it out. They're not good at thinking. If there's a way to put a bandaid on a bullet hole, they'll figure out the best way to do that, but to diagnose something a little more complicated than the common cold? They can't find their ass without a map and a flashlight, and even then they might stop and ask for directions.
So that's how I wound up with this flask of Lactulose, a super laxative.
I got the bottle, and when I got home I tried to open it. It's the kind of top where you push down and turn. Except it wasn't turning. I grabbed one of those rubber things you can use to open stuff, and that didn't work. I thought maybe I was still a little exhausted, so I decided to try again later.
When I did, no dice. It suddenly occurred to me that I'm no longer the guy people can go to to open stuff like jars. I used to be so good at opening difficult jars. Is this the new me? Too weak to open a fucking bottle of laxative?
I got frustrated and grabbed a knife. I started sawing at the neck of the bottle when I realized I was acting crazy. This was just another of life's indignities that I had to get used to if I intended to stick around long enough to really get old.
My brother was at work. My only recourse was to swallow my pride and go back to CVS to get someone there to open it.
The drive-thru line was atrocious, as it usually is when I'm in a hurry, but when I finally got to the window, the guy there took a swing at opening the bottle. And missed. I felt a small measure of victory, but not much. While this kid was in his prime, he was still kind of skinny.
Finally, after trial and error, he was able to get it open. The problem wasn't me. It turned out that Lactulose is so thick and sticky that it stuck the top on. He cleaned the bottle off and put a new top on, and I was able to easily open this fucking thing.
So I have a reprieve, I suppose. But the day will eventually come when I can no longer do something as simple as opening a goddam jar. And that day's not too far off in the future. I'm going to be 46 this year. In less than 20 years I'll be a senior citizen, and God's mercy on you when that happens . . .
Oh yeah, Lactulose really works. It's like an atom bomb. I spent the next few days on the toilet, and it almost felt like taking the bowel prep for a colonoscopy. Except it never went clear on me, and I wiped myself raw. So yeah, if you ever need a good explosive laxative, go with Lactulose.
